When we desire to walk well with those who suffer, it is a beautiful reflection of God’s heart in his children. When we are invited into the sacred spaces of loss, we can feel paralyzed in knowing how to do it.
My husband is a pastor, and we have had the opportunity to walk with many through loss and trial. It was not until we lost our 18-year-old son to leukemia that I learned there is a huge difference between knowing about grief and knowing grief. Walking through the death of our son revealed to me that I knew far less about what is actually helpful in supporting others than I thought.
I want to share nine things that were helpful for us as we walked through both the suffering of cancer with Ezra and then losing him. I hope these things may help equip others to walk well with those who weep.
1. The Prayers We Offer
Prayer is always right, and the way we pray can encourage those who suffer. When we do not know what to pray, we know with confidence that praying God’s word is praying God’s will. When unsure how to pray for someone, pray God’s word for them and tell them what you are praying.
When Ezra was sick, it was deeply encouraging to know how the Spirit led others to pray for us. There were times it gave me hope to keep enduring; times I felt seen by the Lord through the prayers of others. It also gave me verses to pray when I didn’t know how to pray.
After we lost Ezra, I could not pray. I felt betrayed by God, confused about his care, and angry. Every time I tried to pray I could not. I was grateful for the prayers of others who could stand in my place. In this season I also took to reading the prayers of others when my heart could not muster up my own. I wanted to pray yet could not. Using the prayers of saints who have walked before me was a discipline I could practice until prayer felt possible once again.
2. The Presence We Offer
The day after we lost Ezra, we left town. Grief was so intense and overwhelming; all we knew to do was leave. We had friends who drove to be with us for a day. They sat and wept with us. I remember no words they spoke. They simply gifted us with their presence.
We desire to offer condolences and comfort in the midst of sorrow. The heart of this is beautiful, reflecting the heart of God. In our desperation to comfort, however, we often race to find purpose or meaning, forcing beauty when there is none yet to be found. Often, when we long to comfort, the words intended for care can sting more than help. In my moments of deepest sorrow and loss, words I knew were true fell flat on my broken heart. People intended so much care, but their words unintentionally poured salt into the gaping wound of my heart through words I was not ready to hear.
If you err to one side, err on the side of presence over words; cling to those you love before you speak. I do not remember any words that our friends spoke to us the day after Ezra died. I remember they were with us.
3. The Help We Offer
When those we love suffer, we are often desperate to help. We know “let me know what you need” can be unhelpful, coming across as insensitive or forcing one to make more decisions. At the same time, what seems helpful to you may not be helpful to the one who is suffering.
Ezra’s first hospital stay was 7 weeks long, 90 miles from home. My husband and I rotated between home and hospital. We had an outpouring of help from our church and community; having so much care and support was an incredible gift. Several times help with things like cleaning, laundry, or cooking was offered.
I declined several offers and on a few occasions was gently rebuked for an unwillingness to accept help. For me, doing something rote like chores around home felt grounding.
Every piece of my world had been turned upside down. Little things like laundry or cleaning felt like pockets of familiarity. Some of the only comfort in those days was finding familiar rhythms in the monotonous routines of life. I was not refusing help. I was longing for comfort and small rhythms felt strangely comforting.
We are often desperate to help those we love when they suffer. Recognize that what you think might be helpful may not feel helpful for others. Offer what you know to offer. If your offer of help is declined, recognize that there is likely more at play than you realize.
4. The Care We Offer
A lot of people offered care to our family during Ezra’s illness and subsequent death. It was a beautiful picture of God’s care extended through his people.
My boys received a lot of extra care from others. I was deeply grateful for the care extended to our family, including my four other boys.
As you consider offering care, remember the entire family, not just the one who is sick. At the same time, recognize the children are going through a deeply disorienting time. Because my husband is a pastor, the church was intimately involved in our journey. My boys felt deeply exposed and vulnerable during the course of Ezra’s illness and death. There was an unwanted spotlight on them.
There were well-intentioned people who would approach them, people they did not know, and want to talk to them about what Ezra was going through. This was extremely difficult for them.
As you consider caring for the entire family, absolutely include the children in that care. Remember that kids do not necessarily want to engage with strangers, especially not about their suffering. The most meaningful interactions for my kids came from those who already had a relationship with them. They engaged with them in fun activities, making no mention of what our family was enduring.
When offering care to a family, it’s important to consider the relationship and the age of those for whom you care. Care does not come in a one-size-fits-all package for a family. Consider the entire family but engage differently with each family member depending on the age and relationship of each person.
5. The Understanding We Offer
The most helpful illustration I read while grieving is that grief is like a ball in a jar. When loss first happens, the ball takes up the entire jar. As time goes on, the assumption is that the ball gets smaller; the grief shrinks. The reality is not that the ball gets smaller, but the jar gets bigger. The longer I walk with grief, the greater my capacity to hold the grief becomes. I get used to carrying the sorrow.
There is a sense that our grief ties us to the thing or person we lost. A disorienting fear can come when grief starts to lighten. It feels like the only thing still holding us to the thing or person we loved is the deep sadness we feel. As that sadness lifts, does it mean we are losing that connection?
Comfort comes in understanding it is not that our loss has lessened, but our capacity to hold the loss has grown. Our jar increases in size and capacity.
6. The Comfort We Offer
After we lost Ezra, I could not imagine days ahead that felt lighter. How could comfort ever come? I could not comprehend life would ever feel less painful.
Grief has an exhausting nature; you become desperately weary of sadness yet see no way out. I found comfort in reminding myself: Not every day would be as hard as it was today. Not every day would be as dark. I could not understand what light would look like, but I could hold on to hope that not every day would be quite as hard as today.
The trite sayings of “time heals all wounds” or other niceties are neither helpful nor accurate. If you must say something, encourage the one who weeps: “Not every day will be as hard as today.” Scripture promises that weeping may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning (Ps 30:5). The truth is, we do not choose the length of the night. It may be months before the fog starts to lift, but one day, the morning will come. As you awaken, it will not feel quite so hard as it does today.
7. The Recognition We Offer
Before loss, I sorely misunderstood that making it to the one-year mark brings no sense of accomplishment or relief. There is not comfort in knowing that I have now experienced all the firsts. The one-year mark of Ezra passing was overwhelmingly sad for me to realize that I had only made it a year and still had a lifetime to go. The second year of grief was also as complicated as the first; not easier or harder, just different. The first year has all the firsts, but the second year is embracing a new normal you simply do not feel ready to embrace. The adrenaline is gone, the crisis is gone, most of the care and support are gone, a lot of the understanding is gone. It is simply a grind of enduring sorrow, learning to rebuild a life you didn’t choose nor do you feel ready to build.
While I found dates with specific memories were hard, the week leading up to that day were just as painful. I also found the day after a notable date was actually the most exhausting. It felt like I used all my emotional energy to endure the birthday or holiday, and the day after was when I truly crashed.
Ezra died on Thursday, September 29. The week leading up to the day his soul went home with Jesus is wrought with pain. The last time I saw him awake was that Monday. There was an unexpected brain surgery on Tuesday. Wednesday the phone call came from my husband that Ezra would not make it. That afternoon I had to tell my boys their beloved brother would never come home. The entire week we lost Ezra is one painful moment after another. Sorrow knows no boundaries. It is not simply the day Ezra died that triggers all the sorrow, but all that led up to it as well. The last two years, I endured September 26–29, and I wept with overwhelming exhaustion on September 30.
As you walk with those who weep, mark specific days and memories, but recognize it’s not simply the day that is hard, but it’s all the surrounding days as well. Offer prayers, presence, and encouragement over the course of the entire week. Remember that simply because they endured the hard day it does not bring with it a sense of accomplishment.
8. The Greetings We Offer
I used to frequently greet people with phrases like “How are you?” or “How’s it going?” It’s often a careless way of saying “hello.” Most times we don’t truly expect answers. When greeted with those questions, I’m apt to reply, “I’m good, how are you?” which rarely responds with thoughtfulness or accuracy.
In the midst of deep grief, these greetings felt impossible to answer. I was not okay. When greeted with, “How are you?” I would awkwardly shrug and keep walking.
There were a handful of people, however, that would greet me with, “It’s really good to see you” or “I’m glad you’re here.” Often, they would hug me and then keep walking. These greetings felt like mercy. There was no expectation of response, no question to answer.
Consider how you greet people. Even a small shift in language towards someone you know is hurting can feel like a gift of mercy to the one who weeps.
9. The Seeing We Offer
We attended a wedding of one of Ezra’s best friends. The church was full of the people Ezra loved most. He likely would have been in the wedding party. I sat in the back of the sanctuary, knowing I would struggle as the “what ifs” and the “I wish” that still live deep in this mother’s heart came bubbling up.
A few days later, a friend who was at the wedding texted, “I imagine that was really hard for you.” I felt seen in that moment. I hadn’t told her I was dreading it. She recognized that while it was a day of celebration for most, it also shined the light on what was lost for me.
Stepping into that celebration felt like it required so much courage. That space required me to engage the realities of what would never be for Ezra. It required me to confront the sorrows of what was lost head on.
Don’t hesitate to express to those who are grieving the courage it must take for them to show up. Take the opportunity to make them feel seen in their pain.
Conclusion
As followers of Christ, the desire to bring comfort in the midst of sorrow and loss is good and God-honoring. It reflects the heart of God who is, “the God of all comfort.” The reality, however, is that the paths we have walked may, in part, prepare us to walk with others, but often we do not know or understand as much as we may have previously assumed. It is often not until we walk our own path of grief and loss that we will better understand the sorrow of another and what helpful care may look like.